Ever This Day, Be At My Side
by Catalina's Willow
Summary: At the end of season 2, we see Victor at his breaking point. Turning again toward the needle, he prepares to lose himself completely. Only this time, a figure from the shadows intervenes. And they won't let him go without a fight.
1. Chapter 1: One to Watch, One to Pray

_"We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels."_ -William Shakespeare

...

Chapter 1: One to Watch, One to Pray, and Two to Bear My Soul Away

 _It was the veins in my arm that told me._ Victor played back his conversation with Sir Malcolm in his head. He paced his loft, hugging himself tightly.

 _When they collapse you have to find fresh ones. I'm running short._ Beads of sweat had started to form on his brow. _So I'm addicted._

He felt a tingle down his spine. That strange, but familiar sensation of being watched crept slowly in. He had grown used to it by now, what with his first-born's ceaseless stalking. He turned to the dingy window and pulling the curtain aside, peered out into the night.

But the eyes that met his from the street below were not yellow, but green. They were pale and soft. A mint green. The face they belongs to was equally soft, surrounded by a curtain of silvery blonde hair. He quickly withdrew his hand. But even as the thin fabric fell across the window, he felt her gaze. He backed away from the window, suddenly cold.

 _It wasn't Lily. It wasn't…_ him _. But whoever she was, she was watching._ Victor pressed his back against the wall next to the window. Glancing over his shoulder, he carefully peeled back the curtain with a single finger. But the street was empty. Shaking his head, he turned to his medical bags.

He fished out the opium bottle and, with an unusually unsteady hand, filled a syringe. Looking at his bruised arms in defeat, he raised a hand and examined the spaces between his fingers. Biting his lower lip, he raised the needle to the patch of skin between his middle and ring finger.

Just then, there came a sharp rap at the door. Startled, Victor gasped and dropped the syringe. Scrambling to his feet, he clutched a hand to his chest. He felt his heart pumping wildly in its cage. Another series of knocks, softer this time. Regaining his composure, Victor strode briskly to the door. His hand hesitated on the knob. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

 _Definitely mint green._ Those eyes stared up at him intently. Expectantly. The figure was only about 5 feet tall. But she had a presence about her. _Not unlike Miss Ives_ , he thought to himself. Not menacing, but definitely eerie.

 _She's a witch. Has to be. There's no way she could have climbed those stairs so fast._ He slammed the door shut and bolted it. He turned from the door and cried out in fear.

She was in the room, her unblinking eyes locked on his. He lunged for the gun on his table. No sooner did he touch it, a cool, pale hand covered his.

 _NOT A WITCH._ His head filled with whispers from a thousand languages. But they all translated to the same message. _NOT A WITCH._

He looked up and found her faces inches from his. He dropped to his knees, trembling. The face smiled softly and Victor slumped to the floor, losing consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2: Devine Proposotions

Chapter 2: Divine Propositions

He awoke in his bed, the gentle light of dawn falling across his face. His whole body throbbed, but not so much as his head. He sat up, holding his head in his hands as a crack of lightning made its way to the back of his eyes. He groaned.

"You have a long road ahead of you," a voice said softly. Victor gasped and looked up. The lightning struck again with full force, and he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut.

"Please, don't be frightened." The voice was calm, yet rang in the air for a moment too long, like a bell tolling in a clock tower. Victor fought against the storm raging in his skull. He squinted against the light.

She sat by the window, her back to him. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, the flaxen tendrils forming crescent moons against the midnight blue of her gown.

"What are you?" Victor croaked weakly. "What do you want of me?"

"There is no word for what I am in your tongue. Some call me 'Keeper', others 'Guardian'." The figure turned to look over her shoulder at Victor. "And I don't want anything. I'm here to help you." He looked at her with skepticism.

"So you're an angel sent to save me from myself, is that it? I am a man of science. I don't believe in such things." He snapped, his voice dripping with cynicism. "And even if I did, I'm hardly a man worth saving. I've done nothing but horror with my life." The figure stood and walked briskly toward him, a flash of anger in her eyes. Victor scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed. The figure stopped at the side of the bed and knelt before him.

"Believe it or not, Victor, but I _am_ real. And you must learn to trust me." The Figure suddenly reached out and placed a cool hand on his forehead. The storm in his head calmed so suddenly, Victor could not help but gasp. He felt his senses grow keener. He could hear a woman humming to her baby two flats below him. He could smell the sweat of the mare pulling a carriage down the street. He could see…why, he could see _everything_. The veins on the withered petals of Lily's forgotten white roses across the room, the light glinting off the eyes of the pigeon flying over his skylight, the strands of thread forming little roses stitched into the linen hanging on the line outside his window.

And just like that it was gone. The sights, smells, sounds, all gone. The figure had dropped her hand from his head, though he had barely noticed her feather light touch. But the elation remained. It was like an adrenaline shot to the heart. Victor could not remember the last time he wasn't tired. But _this_. This feeling was truly something else.

"What was _that_?" He gasped. The figure smile faintly.

"That was just a taste of what I can do for you, if you let me. But I warn you, my help does not come freely. You must be willing to give up that poison you've depended on for so long; to fight against your own body." The figure grasped Victor's hands tightly in her own, her eyes pleading with him. "It will not be an easy path, you know. But you must make the choice freely." Victor swallowed nervously and stared at his shoes. He shook his head, ashamed of his weakness.

"I've tried to stop. But the pain-"

"The pain will only bother you as long as you choose to let it in. But this drug…" The figure snatched the opium bottle where it lay forgotten on the floor. "This drug is nothing but a crutch for you now. A way to escape life. And _that_ is not living." The figure gently placed the bottle in Victor's palm. "You have a part to play in the story yet to come. So choose life." She curled his fingers around the bottle. "Or choose this." The figure stood and turned to the door. Victor uncurled his fingers slowly, his chest heaving. As her fingers brushed the doorknob, Victor called out.

"Wait." He whimpered, his voice cracking. The figure paused, her head turning ever so slightly, looking over her shoulder. Victor tilted his shaking hand. The bottle fell to the floor with a sharp thud.

"I choose life." The figure smiled and opened the door. Victor leapt to his feet. "Where are you going?!" He cried out.

"I told you my help does not come freely. You must do some of the work on your own. You say you choose life, now prove it. I will return when you need me most." The figure stepped through the doorway, closing it behind her. Victor ran to the door.

"Wait! What is your name?!" He shouted, tearing the door open. But the stairwell, normally filled with desolate women and children, was deserted. Victor searched the air wildly with his eyes. He bolted to the banister and peered down the long, winding stairs frantically. Seeing no one there, his shoulders slumped and he slowly returned to his shabby flat. He closed the door behind him, the click of latch startling him. He stared at the opium bottle. He took a couple of cautious steps toward it, his breath coming in frightened gasps. He stopped directly in front of it and waited. What he was waiting for, even he didn't know. Minutes passed, though to Victor they felt like hours. Suddenly he lifted his right foot and stamped on the bottle with as much force as he could muster. As the glass shattered beneath his shoe, he let out a breath of air he hadn't realized he had been holding. A whisper invaded his head, barely audible above the pounding of his heart.

"Annika," it said. "My name is Annika."


End file.
